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James     Lincoln. 


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of  Sttjgme 


JAMES     LINCOLN 


BOSTON:    RICHARD    G.  BADGER 

The  Gorham  Press 
1903 


Copyright  1903,  by  James  Lincoln. 
All  Rights  Reserved. 


Printed  at  The  Gorham  Press. 
Boston,  U.S.A. 


DEDICATION 

Gentle  Janet,  to  you  alone  I  dare 

Inscribe  the  songs  that,  but  for  you,  were  gone 
As  gusty  leaves  across  autumnal  lawn, 

Or  shepherd's  troubled  pipings  down  the  air. 


M191980 


As  through  the  Field  of  Song  I  went, 
An  alien,  yet  with  lingering  tread, 

These  few  rough  leaves  I  plucked,  of  scent 
Pungent,  not  sweet,  and  blotched  with  red. 


FOREWORD 

The  author  is  bound  to  acknowledge  the  courtesy  of  the 
several  magazines  that  have  permitted  him  to  include  in 
this  volume  poems  which  they  had  bought  and  printed. 
The  first  of  the  sonnets,  "To  England,"  originally  ap- 
peared in  The  Atlantic  Monthly;  the  second,  under  the 
title  "  A  Rumor  Goes,"  in  The  New  England  Magazine, 
which  also  published  the  sonnet  "  Betrayed."  The  lyric, 
"  Pigeon  Post,"  was  first  issued  in  the  The  Chautauquan, 
and  "Blood-Road"  in  The  Churchman.  In  general,  how- 
ever, these  verses,  as  commenting  upon  current  events, 
were  printed,  when  they  were  printed  at  all,  in  news- 
papers, more  often  in  The  Springfield  Republican,  occasion- 
ally in  The  Boston  Transcript.  It  will  be  evident  to  the 
reader,  if  so  excellent  a  personage  exist,  that  they  were 
suggested,  in  most  instances,  by  cablegrams  from  South 
Africa  as  given  to  the  American  press  during  the  Boer 
war. 


CONTENTS 

PRELUDES  PAGES 

To  England 11 

The  War  Spirit 13 

Remarks  from  Uncle  Sam          ....  14 

Kruger  and  Victoria  .         .         ...  15 

Prayers  in  Camp         ......  16 

Puzzlehead 17 

Glory 18 

CABLEGRAMS 

Dundee 21 

An  Anachronism        ......  22 

A  Veteran  of  Elandslaagte          ....  23 

Seven  from  Eight 24 

Nicholson's  Nek 25 

"  On  to  Pretoria  !" 20 

Noblesse  Oblige 27 

The  Black  Watch 28 

Foes 29 

The  Fifth  Brigade  at  Colenso    ....  30 

An  Only  Son 32 

An  Incident  of  the  Siege 33 

Ambushed 34 

With  the  Compliments  of  the  Season        .         .  35 

A  Woman's  Chronicle  of  1900  ...  36 

Blood-Road 38 

POSTLUDES 

A  Question  of  Identity 43 

A  British  Bargain       ......  43 

Israel  in  the  Wilderness 44 

Court-Martialed 45 

Pigeon  Post 46 

Man  and  Woman  :  Boer  and  Briton  .         .  47 

Betrayed 52 

7 


PRELUDES 


TO   ENGLAND 


Who  would  trust  England,  let  him  lift  his  eyes 
To  Nelson,  columned  o'er  Trafalgar  Square, 
Her  hieroglyph  of  DUTY,  written  where 

The  roar  of  traffic  hushes  to  the  skies ; 

Or  mark,  while  Paul's  vast  shadow  softly  lies 

On  Gordon's  statued    sleep,  how    praise  and 

prayer 

Flush  through  the  frank  young  faces  cluster- 
ing there 

To  con  that  kindred  rune  of  SACRIFICE. 

O  England,  no  bland  cloud-ship  in  the  blue, 
But  rough  oak  plunging  on  o'er  perilous  jars 

Of  reef  and  ice,  our  faith  will  follow  you 

The  more  for  tempest   roar   that   strains   your 
spars 

And  splits  your  canvas,  be  your  helm  but  true, 
Your  courses  shapen  by  the  eternal  stars. 


11 


II 

But  —  God  forbid  !  —  if  lust  of  yellow  ore, 

The  pride  of  power,  the  trumpet's  fanfaronade, 
Deform  your  March  of  Progress  to  a  raid, 

And  with  Injustice  stalking  on  before 

You  usher  Justice  in,  then  all  the  more 
Because  we  love  you,  are  we  sore  afraid, 
Yet  not  of  your  defeat,  whose  hearts  are  made 

From  stoutest  clay  that  ever  planet  bore. 

We  fear  your  victory,  if,  truth  to  tell, 

Your  cause  lack  God.     Though  blood  your  ar- 
teries spill 

Is  earth's  most  precious,  what  shall  parallel 
Our  poverty  if  good  confounds  with  ill 
And  right  with  wrong,  if  your  own  stroke  should 

kill 

That   great   world-conscience    you    have   fostered 
well? 


12 


THE   WAR   SPIRIT 

The  papers  read  like  Kipling, 

The  thrilling  bugles  call, 
Old  Odin  falls  to  tippling 

In  glad  Valhalla  hall. 

As  he  quaffs  the  skull- wrought  chalice 
His  war-maids  toss  their  spears, 

The  aurora  borcalis 

Of  our  enlightened  years. 

Above  the  pallid  steeples 

Impartially  he  gloats 
On  his  two  Norland  peoples 

Tearing  each  other's  throats. 

"My  were-wolves  fled  the  forest 
Nigh  twenty  centuries  back, 

But  when  my  thirst  is  sorest, 
I  whistle  to  the  pack, 

"  And  blood  runs,  hot  and  ruddy, 

More  delicately  spiced 
For  scents  of  town  and  study 

And  tears  of  their  White  Christ." 


13 


REMARKS   FROM   UNCLE    SAM 

44  I  can't  throw  stones,"  sighed  Uncle  Sam, 

As  meek  as  any  mouse. 
"  I  can't  throw  stones,"  sighed  Uncle  Sam, 

44  Whatever  comes  to  pass." 
44  I  can't  throw  stones,"  sighed  Uncle  Sam, 

u  I've  built  my  own  new  house 
—  Imperial  style,  not  pebble-proof  — 

Of  Philippine  glass. 

44  Birds  of  a  feather  flock  together. 

John  Bull,  he  used  me  well. 
Birds  of  a  feather  flock  together. 

One's  cousin  must  be  right. 
Birds  of  a  feather  flock  together. 

It  riles  me  when  folks  tell 
How  our  Anglo-Saxon  plumage 

Is  rubbing  off  the  white. 

44  Ain't  we  the  Christian  nations 

That  head  the  march  to  Zion  ? 
Ain't  we  the  Christian  nations 

That  calculate  to  love 
Our  neighbors'  countries  as  our  own  ? 

The  eagle  and  the  lion 
Will  now  walk  out  to  luncheon 

Off  the  lambkin  and  the  dove." 


14 


KRUGER   AND   VICTORIA 

There  are  two  old  faces  play 

Peek-a-boo  through  the  smoke. 

The  one  is  grim  and  gray, 

Rough  as  a  mask  of  oak, 

A  seasoned  bit  of  board 

That  might  break  a  British  sword. 

The  other,  more  aged  yet, 
With  a  woman's  motion  peers, 
A  weary  face  afret 
With  love  and  doubt  and  tears, 
But  brows  above  that  frown 
In  shadow  of  a  crown. 


PRAYERS   IN   CAMP 

We  praise  Thee  for  all  Thy  mercies, 

Our  weal  and  our  neighbors'  harms, 
And  especially  for  the  reverses 

Befalling  the  British  arms. 
Thou  hast  set  up  pride  in  the  pillory, 

The  heart  of  the  spoiler  faints, 
While  the  best  of  modern  artillery 

Speaks  for  Thy  simple  saints. 

We  acknowledge  Thy  gracious  Providence, 

In  that  we  passed  our  guns 
As  "  agricultural  implements  " 

Through  the  port  of  those  haughty  ones, 
That  their  hands  have  ground  our  axes, 

Their  oil  has  fed  our  lamp, 
That  their  Uitlander  taxes 

Have  built  the  Transvaal  camp. 

Chastise  their  greed  and  their  vanity, 

Their  trespass  against  our  rights, 
An  insult  to  all  humanity, 

A  term  which  means  the  Whites. 
We,  too,  were  not  given  to  chaffer 

With  Hottentots,  Zulus  and  such, 
But  it's  one  thing  to  slaughter  the  Kaffir 

And  another  to  rob  the  Dutch. 


10 


PUZZLEHEAD 

What  if  Right  makes  Might, 
Not  Might  makes  Right, 
And  God,  the  All  or  the  Nought, 
Is  less  extinct  than  we  thought ! 

Those  Dutchmen  say,  — but  they're  fools 
Who  will  not  fight  by  rules. 
(Is  the  art  of  war  complete 
In  knowing  how  to  beat?) 

Yet  yonder  upon  their  knees 
They  make  my  marrow  freeze, 
Though,  faith,  I  don't  know  why. 
Britannia  rules  the  sky. 

A  prayer-meeting  !     What  has  that 
To  do  with  a  battle  ?     Scat ! 
Lyddite  shell  makes  a  queer  amen. 
Was  Jehovah  joking  then? 


17 


GLORY 

At  the  crowded  gangway  they  kissed  good-bye. 

He  had  half  a  mind  to  scold  her. 
An  officer's  mother  and  not  keep  dry 

The  epaulet  on  his  shoulder  ! 


He  had  forgotten  mother  and  fame, 

His  mind  in  a  blood-mist  floated, 
But  when  reeling  back  from  carnage  they  came, 

One  told  him  :     *'  You  are  promoted  !  " 

His  friend  smiled  up  from  the  cursed  red  sand, 

The  look  was  afar,  eternal, 
But  he  tried  to  salute  with  his  shattered  hand : 

"  Room  now  for  another  colonel !  " 


Again  he  raged  in  that  lurid  hell 

Where  the  country  he  loved  had  thrown  him. 
u  You  are  promoted  !  "  shrieked  a  shell. 

His  mother  would  not  have  known  him. 


18 


CABLEGRAMS 


DUNDEE 

"  My  knight  has  fought  a  gallant  fight. 

Dundee,  Dundee ! 
I'll  wing  him  word  of  dear  delight, 
For  pale  he  walks  in  shadow-sight, 
His  weary  eyes  with  slumber  bound 
And  the  Union  Jack  about  him  wound, 
As  seeking  love  and  me." 

Ah,  why  should  foeman  flash  reply 

And  from  Dundee? 
u  He  lies  beneath  the  Afric  sky, 
As  many  a  hero  more  must  lie, 
Nor  wifely  message  on  his  breast 
Can  lull  that  soldier  heart  to  rest, 

While  cannon  shake  the  lea." 

O  war  !  will  gold  repay  us  for 

Dundee,  Dundee? 
And  if  so  rich  the  firstlings  are 
Of  thy  red-reaping  scimitar, 
How  will  thy  granaries  over-run, 
Till  shuddering  stars  and  solemn  sun 
Tell  God  what  things  they  see  ! 


21 


AN   ANACHRONISM 

"  Pray  use  my  ambulance.     Happy  to  lend,'' 
Quoth  General  White,  as  if  to  a  friend. 
The  Dutchman  made  a  courteous  bend. 

"  Burghers  !  "  called  Joubert.     "Blankets  here 

And  plenty  of  water !     I  sadly  fear 

These  wounded  British  have  need  of  cheer." 

Wide  grinned  the  black-mouthed  howitzers  all 
To  see  those  queerest  of  enemies  fall 
To  pouring  the  balsam  after  the  ball. 


A   VETERAN   OF   ELANDSLAAGTE 

Laughing  from  the  hurly-burly 

Came  the  Gordon,  with  a  snick 
In  his  neck,  and  with  his  curly 

Chestnut  mop  less  bright  and  thick 
Where  a  ball  had  scored  her  tally, 

Ear-lap  gone,  a  reddened  shoe, 
And,  no  case  for  shilly-shally, 

His  right  arm  shot  four  times  through. 

Just  before  the  youngster  suffers 

Sponge  and  saw,  he  laughs  again. 
"  Deil-ma-care  !     If  yond  auld  duffers 

Trow  they  spilt  my  parritch  when 
All  their  bonny  lead  they  landed 

Up  this  sleeve,  they  dinna  ken 
I've  the  luck  to  be  left-handed." 

Kruger  might  have  kissed  him  then. 


23 


SEVEN   FROM   EIGHT 

Add  seven  dead  fools  to  a  vagabond, 

And  the  sum  is  eight  Dutch  heroes. 
That's  the  arithmetic  up  beyond, 
Where  our  lords  of  gold  and  of  diamond 
Most  commonly  count  as  zeroes. 

'Twas  already  a  murder  without  remorse, 

When  the  eight  ran  out  on  the  level, 
As  blithe  as  bairns  at  play  in  the  gorse, 
And  dared  the  Imperial  White  Horse, 
Who  gave  them  back  the  devil. 

But  the  louts  had  covered  their  troop,  which  thus 

Was  shifted  to  safe  position, 
While  into  the  eight  that  courted  us, 
We  had  been  pouring  an  over-plus 

Of  excellent  ammunition. 

One  staggered  to  shelter,  amid  our  cheers 

That  failed  to  wake  the  seven, 
For  whom,  though  my  heart  is  hard  with  years, 
I  had  almost  shed  a  soldier's  tears, 

Almost  believed  in  heaven. 

This  little  incident  put  us  out 

Worse  than  a  Dutch  tactician, 
For  the  more  these  Boers  are  humane,  devout, 
Patriots,  martyrs,  the  more  they  flout 

Our  civilizing  mission. 

24 


NICHOLSON'S  NEK 

We  do  not  look  for  flattery, 
We  men  who  lost  our  battery 
And  reserves  of  ammunition  through  panic  of  the 

mules, 

But  we  deprecate  the  jollity 
With  which  the  world's  frivolity 
Will   air    its    wit    at    our   expense    in    club-house 
vestibules. 

We've  muffed  it  past  all  charity, 
But  spare  us  your  hilarity, 
Us  falling   here    by   groups   and    squads   beneath 

their  fiery  lead, 
As  helpless  as  a  nunnery, 
Hemmed  in  by  awful  gunnery 
That    tears   our    flanks,  our   front,  our   rear,  and 
pours  from  overhead. 

We've  nothing  more  to  say  on  it, 
Content  to  fix  the  bayonet 
And    blazon    comedy    with   blood,    since    so    our 

fortune  rules. 

The  jest  begins  to  weary  us. 
We  hope  that  death  is  serious, 

Even    the    death    of    Englishmen    discomfited    by 
mules. 


25 


"ON   TO   PRETORIA!" 

All  hats  off  in  Pretoria, 

While  the  British  prisoners  pass  ! 
A  new  translation  of  gloria 

Is  taught  in  Oom  Paul's  class. 

A  Dutch  translation  of  gloria, 

But  can  London  better  the  phrase  ? 

All  heads  bared  in  Pretoria, 

While  the  conquered  wend  their  ways ! 


NOBLESSE   OBLIGE 

Premier  Marquis  of  England, 

With  eager  Methuen  he  came ; 
Premier  Marquis  of  England, 

And  never  a  son  to  his  name. 
Paying  his  debt  to  England, 

Against  the  bullets  he  stood. 
Ah,  Premier  Marquis  of  England, 

The  Modder  likes  noble  blood. 

Fifteenth  Marquis  of  Winchester  ! 

The  first  of  his  gallant  race, 
The  earliest  Marquis  of  Winchester, 

Was  Lord  Treasurer  unto  his  Grace 
Edward  the  Sixth,  nor  Winchester 

Has  been  wanting  in  duty  since. 
The  fifteenth  Marquis  of  Winchester 

Would  not  be  the  first  to  wince. 

Sweet  be  his  slumber  in  Africa, 

As  in  his  ancestral  vault ! 
Whoever  has  sinned  against  Africa, 

The  soldier  is  not  at  fault. 
Let  Chamberlain  answer  for  Africa 

At  the  Bar  all  burning  white, 
But  in  India,  Egypt,  Africa, 

Is  the  fallen  soldier  right. 


27 


THE   BLACK   WATCH 

They  had  trained  us  into  their  treasons, 
And  their  withering  welcome  of  lead 

Might  have  been  the  best  of  reasons 
Why  another  brigade  had  fled, 

But  we  Highlanders  have  our  fancies, 

Our  glamour  of  old  romances, 
And  so  we  lie  dying  and  dead. 

We  make  dour  faces  together, 

Though  we're  not  the  lads  for  a  fuss, 

But  it's  hardly  like  lounging  on  heather 
To  writhe  in  your  life-blood,  thus. 

No  touch  of  heather  and  govvan, 

No  glint  of  the  red-berried  rowan 
Ever  again  for  us. 

The  cunning  of  this  land's  breeding 

Passes  the  wit  of  men. 
Our  general  —  yonder  he's  bleeding  — 

Marshalled  us  on  as  a  hen 
Might  cluck  her  brood  through  the  shadows, 
Over  the  dawn-dewy  meadows, 

Down  to  the  fox's  den. 

God  rest  him !     'Twas  never  an  error 
To  follow  a  glorious  chief. 


If  a  man's  conquered  only  by  terror, 
Let  Britain  be  proud  in  her  grief, 
For  the  last  Boer  bullet  shall  whistle 
Ere  we  change  the  sturdy  Scotch  thistle 
For  the  sign  of  the  aspen  leaf. 

From  dusk  to  dusk  roars  the  battle, 
Till  the  pulses  cease  in  our  wrists, 

The  rifles  muffle  their  rattle, 

And  our  eyes  are  drowsy  with  mists. 

One  thought  is  the  last  of  life's  sorrow, 

The  thought  of  our  women  to-morrow, 
When  the  War  Office  reads  out  the  lists. 


FOES 

The  rifle  was  missing  from  off  its  pegs, 

But  the  old  Dutch  clock,  its  face  gone  white, 

Ticked  the  second  its  owner's  legs 
Were  shot  away  in  Stormberg  fight. 

The  ghastly  dawn  of  that  bitter  day 

—  Could  it  scare  the  hound  in  an  English  hall 
That  he  howled  as  if,  half  a  world  away, 

He  had  heard  the  thud  of  his  master's  fall? 

As  each  man  writhed  in  his  dying  throes, 

Hand  gripped  hand  on  the  blood-soaked  sod, 

And  thus,  like  brothers,  those  quiet  foes 
Departed  this  life  to  the  mercy  of  God. 

29 


THE   FIFTH    BRIGADE   AT   COLENSO 

It  was  the  Irishmen  made  the  advance, 

—  Black  eyes,  grey  eyes,  all  on  the  dance  — 

Irishmen  daring  for  England. 
The  Dublins  they  led,  with  a  laugh  and  a  cheer, 
Through  the  blue  bright  morning  that  cost  them 
dear, 

Irishmen  dying  for  England. 

In  front,  the  plain  to  the  curving  flood, 
With  the  hills  beyond  whose  price  was  blood, 

—  In  front,  the  honor  of  England. 
Never  an  enemy  there  to  be  seen, 
Yet  woe  for  the  shamrock,  woe  for  the  green 

Bathed  in  the  red  of  England ! 

For  those  tranquil  hills  had  begun  to  pour 
A  rifle-rattle  and  cannon-roar 

Into  the  path  of  England. 
Most  hateful  of  all  that  horrible  song, 
The  fierce  little  quick-fire's  Bong-bong-bong 

Crackled  its  laugh  at  England. 


30 


Here  drops  a  Patrick,  yonder  a  Mike, 
A  Rory,  a  Dennis,  a  Larry,  alike 

Gasping  in  dust  for  England. 
Long  and  shrill  shall  the  Banshee  keen 
On  the  coming  night  in  the  island  green, 

The  island  that  bleeds  for  England. 

While  the  dying  sobbed  and  the  wounded  crept, 
On  to  the  bank  of  the  river  swept 

Irishmen  fighting  for  England, 
And  for  full  five  hours  of  shot  and  sun 
They  held  the  ground  that  their  valor  won, 

Irishmen  winning  for  England. 


31 


AN   ONLY   SON 

u  This  will  mean  the  Victoria  Cross," 
His  comrades  proudly  said. 
They  were  sick  with  counting  their  loss, 
As  they  sat  by  his  rough  camp-bed, 
And  were  glad  to  praise,  instead, 
The  son  of  the  coming  Chief. 

'Twas  "  Bobs"  that  would  bring  relief, 
The  hero  of  Kandahar. 
"  I  will  sharpen  his  sword,"  said  Grief, 
Who  had  grown  so  great  with  war 
That  her  shadow,  stretching  far, 
Dimmed  Britain's  fields  and  fells. 

So  the  whitening  mouth,  that  tells 
To  the  last  how  he  failed  to  save 
The  guns,  drops  wide,  and  the  shells 
Hiss  over  his  idle  grave, 
But  the  great  sea  roars  like  drums, 
For  beware  !   the  Father  comes. 


AN   INCIDENT   OF   THE    SIEGE 

He  was  only  an  entomologist, 

Only  wanted  a  fly  in  his  fist. 

Let  Cecil  Rhodes  nurse  a  diamond  whim, 

South  African  moths  were  enough  for  him. 

He  might  have  left  Ladysmith  at  the  first, 
But  for  all  his  science,  he  had  a  cursed 
English  grit  of  his  own,  as  he  told  his  cat, 
And  he  wasn't  milksop  enough  for  that. 

So  he  just  stayed  on  with  Grimalkin  there, 
Writing  his  book  on  the  cellar  stair, 
And  laughing  to  see  Tabby's  back  go  up 
At  every  jar  of  a  brutal  Krupp. 

If  one  could  trace  the  myriad  strains 
That  went  to  the  moulding  of  that  man's  brains 
Through  patient  centuries,  one  might  find 
The  infinite  cost  of  a  master-mind. 

But  shrapnel  is  shrapnel ;   it  does  n't  choose. 
Poor  Puss  was  rubbing  against  his  shoes 
When  he  came  to  the  door,  and  by  Long  Tom  ! 
I  swear  she  spat  at  that  fizzing  bomb. 

Well !     There  was  mincemeat  enough  to  please 

The  bloodiest  Boer  on  the  stiffest  knees. 

He  only  said  :   '*  Look  after  my  cat," 

But  our  friend  the  powder  had  seen  to  that. 


AMBUSHED 

Over  the  lonesome  African  plain 

The  stars  look  down,  like  eyes  of  the  slain. 

A  bumping  ride  across  gullies  and  ruts, 
Now  a  grumble  and  now  a  jest, 
A  bit  of  profanity  jolted  out, 
—  Whist! 

Into  a  hornet's  nest ! 
Curse  on  the  scout ! 

Long-bearded  Boers  rising  out  of  the  rocks, 
Rocks  that  already  are  crimson-splashed, 
Ping-ping  of  bullets,  stabbings  and  cuts, 
As  if  hell  hurtled  and  hissed, 
-  Then,  muffling  the  shocks, 
A  sting  in  the  breast, 
A  mist, 

A  woman's  face  down  the  darkness  flashed, 
Rest. 

All  as  before,  save  for  still  forms  spread 
Under  the  boulders  dripping  red. 

Over  the  lonesome  African  plain 

The  stars  look  down,  like  eyes  of  the  slain. 


WITH   THE   COMPLIMENTS   OF   THE 
SEASON 

(During  the  holidays  the  Boers  besieging  Ladysmith 
shot  into  the  city  shells  containing  plum-puddings.) 

No  fear  of  hoax.     A  Dutchman  jokes 

In  earnest,  as  he  fights, 
And  every  shell  they  've  plugged  so  well 

To  Christmas  cheer  invites. 
Plum-pudding  cold!     What  bard  has  told 

Siege  of  such  hard  condition 
That  those  shut  in  by  cannon  din 

Devour  the  ammunition? 

Their  neighbor  wit  a  plan  has  hit 

Bids  fair  to  suit  the  czar 
And  ruin  quite  thine  appetite, 

Old  greedy  God  of  War. 
Plum-pudding  hot!     A  lucky  shot ! 

Henceforth  rude  lead  displeases. 
Let's  fight  it  out  in  one  grand  bout 

Of  puddings  and  Dutch  cheeses ! 


35 


A   WOMAN'S   CHRONICLE    OF    1900 

Spion  Kop ! 

The  hill  was  won,  the  hill  was  won. 

What  matters  that?     I  only  know 

My  Louis  perished  —  not  alone. 

Full  many  an  English  mother's  son 

Joined  in  his  parting  groan. 

But  he,  my  first-born,  lying  so 

In  the  awful  zone 

Of  death,  close  up  to  their  firing-line, 

Riddled  with  shot,  that  boy  of  mine ! 

Eight  bullets  struck  him  ere  his  cry  was  clone, 

His  cry  for  water  —  his  —  who  dug  our  well 

Where  dogs  and  cattle  drank  the  day  he  fell. 

Paardeberg ! 

I  smell  it  yet,  that  carrion  pit, 

That  hole  of  slaughter  in  their  ring 

Of  fire.     May  God  remember  it ! 

My  baby,  breathing  stench  for  air, 

Died  on  the  seventh  day. 

I  could  not  hear  her  father's  prayer 

For  the  thundering 

Of  their  sixty  guns,  while  we  scooped  her  grave, 

His  latest  prayer,  for  Modder's  wave 

Had  swirled  his  lyddite-shattered  corse  away 

Before  to  death's  pallid  familiars  came 

A  worse  companionship,  defeat  and  shame. 


36 


With  De  Wet 

My  twelve-year-old,  my  last  of  all, 

Is  riding  now  beneath  the  stars, 

My  rosy  Jan,  of  frame  too  small, 

Of  soul  too  innocent  for  wars, 

Riding  to-night,  unless 

Already  the  mimosa  hides 

A  rigidness 

That  was  my  child.     No,  no,  he  rides 

With  bold  De  Wet,  to  vex  them  'mid 

Their  homestead  bonfires.    Wind,  that  bearest  on 

Thy  wings  the  wailing  of  a  people  gone, 

Shall  e'er  our  hatred  perish?     God  forbid  ! 


37 


BLOOD-ROAD 

The  Old  Year  groaned  as  he  trudged  away, 
His  guilty  shadow  black  on  the  snow, 

And  the  heart  of  the  glad  New  Year  turned  grey 
At  the  road  Time  bade  him  go. 

"  O  Gaffer  Time,  is  it  blood-road  still? 

Is  the  noontide  dark  as  the  stormy  morn? 
Is  man's  will  yet  as  a  wild  beast's  will  ? 

When  shall  the  Christ  be  born?  " 

He  laughed  as  he  answered,  grim  Gaffer  Time, 
Whose  laugh  is  sadder  than  all  men's  moan. 

"  That  name  rides  high  on  our  wrath  and  crime, 
For  the  Light  in  darkness  shone. 

u  And  thoii,  fair  youngling,  wilt  mend  the  tale?  " 
The  New  Year  stared  on  the  misty  wold, 

Where  at  foot  of  a  cross  all  lustrous  pale 
Men  raged  for  their  gods  of  gold. 

u  Come  back,  Old  Year,  with  thy  burden  bent. 

Come  back  and  settle  thine  own  dark  debt." 
"  Nay,  let  me  haste  where  the  years  repent, 

For  I  've  seen  what  I  would  forget." 


38 


u  And  I,  the  first  of  a  stately  train, 
The  tramp  of  a  century  heard  behind, 

Must  I  be  fouled  with  thy  murder-stain  ? 
Is  there  no  pure  path  to  find  ? " 

The  Old  Year  sneered  as  he  limped  away 
To  the  place  of  his  penance  dim  and  far. 

The  New  Year  stood  in  the  gates  of  day, 
Crowned  with  the  morning  star. 


39 


POSTLUDES 


A   QUESTION    OF   IDENTITY 

You  've  made  a  bloody  bad  pother 

Over  there  on  the  veldt,  St.  George, 
You  blustering,  beautiful  fellow, 

Who  would  hammer  the  globe  on  your  forge, 
I  love  your  blue  eyes  and  the  yellow 

Wave  of  your  hair,  but  your  sword 
—  Has  it  dinged  for  a  dragon  your  brother, 

St.  Michael,  Beloved  of  the  Lord? 


A   BRITISH   BARGAIN 

Tears,  tears,  tears  ! 
Rare  tears  that  heart-break  yields ! 

Bleeding  tears, 
The  cost  of  diamond  fields ! 

Tears  for  stones  ! 
The  dull  earth  gendered  those ; 

These,  men's  groans, 
And  women's  ceaseless  woes. 

Tears,  tears,  tears ! 
In  mines  of  anguish  wrought ! 

Christ,  what  tears 
For  diamonds  dearly  bought ! 


ISRAEL   IN   THE   WILDERNESS 

A  pillar  cloudy-dim 

By  day,  and  fire-pillar  by  night,  no  more 
Than  these  to  be  our  witness  unto  Him 
Who  moves  before ! 

The  cherubim  that  reach 
Their  golden  wings  above  the  mercy-seat, 
Look  sadly  through  the  incense  each  to  each, 
But  kiss  His  feet. 

Perchance  our  little  ones 
Shall  see  the  Promised  Land  mysterious, 
But  we  must  lie  where  desert  winds  and  suns 
Still  trouble  us. 

Yet  though  the  evil  came 
In  lieu  of  good,  thistles  for  cinnamon, 
We  trust  His  presence  in  the  cloud  and  flame, 
And  follow  on. 


44 


COURT-MARTIALED 

Young  blood,  as  wild  as  flame, 
Prompted  the  angry  thrust. 

He  died  the  death  of  shame 
And  left  dishonored  dust. 

Bewildered  by  surcease 

Of  that  last  strangling  strife, 

The  soul  in  sudden  peace 
Beheld  the  Book  of  Life. 

On  one  clear  page  he  saw 
A  strange  initial,  red. 

"  The  rubric  of  God's  law," 
His  quiet  angel  said. 

"  The  kind  Eternities, 

O  child  so  sore  perplexed, 

Will  draw  thee  to  their  knees 
And  teach  thee  noble  text. 

"  The  gold-leaf  and  the  blue 
Shall  lovingly  combine 

To  bring  this  crimson  hue 
Within  the  fair  design. 


45 


"  The  Artist  is  not  mocked." 
But  here  the  spirit  turned. 

White  dreams  about  him  flocked. 
Keen  longings  in  him  burned. 

His  answer,  hushed  with  awe, 
Hardly  the  angel  heard. 

"  The  rubric  of  God's  law  ! 
Teach  me  His  perfect  word/' 


PIGEON  POST 

White  wing,  white  wing, 
Lily  of  the  air, 

What  word  dost  bring, 
On  whose  errand  fare  ? 

Red  word,  red  word, 
Snowy  plumes  abhor. 

I,  Chris fs  own  bird, 
Do  the  work  of  war. 


46 


MAN  AND  WOMAN  :  BOER  AND  BRITON 
I 

God  set  the  waste  between  them, 

And  the  flame, 
But  the  stars  had  watched  and  seen  them, 

How  they  came. 

Whirlwind  and  desert  burning, 

Thunder- wrack, 
Could  hinder  not  their  yearning, 

Blind  their  track. 

God  piled  the  seas,  in  beryl 

Wall  on  wall, 
But  their  hearts,  that  laughed  at  peril, 

Leapt  them  all. 

Icebergs,  fiercely  riding 
v  Arctic  stream, 

Sought  and  missed  their  gliding 
Sails  of  dream. 

God  called  the  hills  together, 

Rings  on  rings, 
But  they  wrought  from  sky  and  heather 

Purple  wings. 


Over  peaks  snow-sheeted 

Blithe  they  went, 
And  God  stood  defeated, 

Well  content. 

II 

Then  Time  came  forth,  with  malice 

And  with  fleers, 
And  he  fashioned  them  a  chalice 

Of  the  years. 

Covetous  and  cruel 

Wonder-smith, 
Mined  their  strength  for  jewel, 

Drew  the  pith 

From  the  ruddy  flower 

Of  their  spring, 
Crushed  their  golden  hour 

Quivering. 

Yet  he  dimmed  all  glitter 

Of  the  cup, 
And  with  juices  bitter 

Filled  it  up. 

Oh,  they  thirsted  for  it, 
Liquor  rare  ! 


48 


Merrily  they  bore  it 
To  the  air ; 

Mocked  his  low  cave-portal, 

And  above 
Drank  to  the  immortal 

Joy  of  love. 

Ill 

Life  set  a  snare  between  them, 

Strong  as  pain, 
But  the  stars  had  watched  and  seen  them 

Break  the  chain. 

Goblins  forged  it  wary, 

Under  sea, 
But  the  sword  of  fairy 

Cut  them  free. 

Life  gave  to  her  a  labor, 

And  to  him, 
And  neither  saw  his  neighbor 

For  the  dim 

Dust-clouds  from  the  hammer 

And  the  stone, 
But  beneath  the  clamor 

Crept  a  tone. 


Life  searched  the  poison  garden 

For  a  lie 
That  waved  its  branches  hard  on 

Cloud  and  sky, 

Daring  Truth  to  pluck  it, 

Roots  in  hell, 
But  the  lightning  struck  it, 

And  it  fell. 

IV 

Death  loved  them  for  their  valor, 

And  his  torch 
Beckoned  them  through  Gates  of  Pallor, 

Ivory  Porch. 

But  the  tender  shadow 

Hid  her  face, 
And  the  amaranth  meadow 

Lost  his  trace. 

Where  the  spirits  glisten 

And  rejoice, 
They  drew  apart  to  listen 

For  a  voice. 


50 


Pearl  and  rubies  seeded 

In  their  dress 
Vexed  them  for  a  needed 

Preciousness. 

They,  for  starry  tires, 

Begged  the  boon 

Of  their  old  desires, 

Pilgrim  shoon, 

And  passed  the  blue  pavilions, 
Scorned  the  sun, 

Amid  Death's  shining  millions 
Seeking  one. 


BETRAYED 

The  nightmare  melts  at  last,  and  London  wakes 

To  her  old  habit  of  victorious  ease. 

More  men,  and  more,  and  more  for  over  seas, 
More  guns,  until  the  giant  hammer  breaks 
That  patriot  folk  whom  even  God  forsakes. 

Shall  not  Great  England  work  her  will  on  these, 

The  foolish  little  nations,  and  appease 
An  angry  shame  that  in  her  memory  aches? 

But  far  beyond  the  fierce-contested  flood, 

The  cannon-planted  pass,  the  shell-torn  town, 

The  last  wild  carnival  of  fire  and  blood, 

Beware,  beware  that  dim  and  awful  Shade, 

Armored  with  Milton's  word  and    Cromwell's 
frown, 

Affronted  Freedom,  of  her  own  betrayed  ! 


62 


M191980 

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